American Horror Story - Season 1-5 E8 - Fall pt 1
by leaftheweed
Summary: Episode 8: Tate deals with what he did at Westfield High & Ben's there to help. Will Ben's history as a mental patient help or harm the mission? And finally - FINALLY - Violet talks to Tate. Can his crazy plan set everything right? Visit the days leading up to the shootings. And brace yourself for the return trip to Westfield. Written in the style of the show. Features full cast.
1. Chapter 1 - Dead in the Library

This is** Episode 8 **of American Horror Story season 1.5 - Murder House Revisited. You could probably read this without reading the previous episodes and still follow what's going on but it will make a lot more sense if you read the first half of the season before.

* * *

**1994 **

At first David thought it was a joke. Near the end of the year senior pranks were commonplace and some had gotten pretty elaborate. Gunfire in the halls sounded like lockers slamming or firecrackers. Not the huge ones they set off on the 4th of July but the little bitty ones that wouldn't dent a coffee can. David heard the noise but he ignored it. It didn't sound dangerous.

Then a guy in a leather motorcycle jacket ran in and started barricading the door. Mr. Carmichael was on duty in the library and he started grilling the unhinged teen. The boy stammered something about how someone was shooting up the school. David knew it had to be a prank. Nobody would shoot up a school. That only happened on television. David couldn't see the blood from where he was.

Kyle, one of Westfield's football players, headed toward the exit but there were more popping noises just outside the door. Everyone froze, then Mr. Carmichael cried out "Go!" and just like a relay race everyone dove for cover, understanding intuitively that they needed to hide. Fast.

There was no time to think or plan. David crouched down behind the copier and as an afterthought crowded himself into the space beneath it as best he could. He barely had time to register that he wasn't very comfortable when he heard rattling at the door that the rocker guy had barricaded. David's heart felt like it stopped while he strained to hear in the heavy silence that followed.

He heard frantic whispers and scrambling. He wondered if it was safe to try and make a run for it. Then he heard two - or was it three? - loud pops over near the unblocked side door and he heard a girl scream. David's heart kick-started and leapt into overdrive. He had trouble catching his breath, his heart was pounding so hard. This was real.

David heard heavy footsteps, slow and methodical. Then, strangely, he heard whistling. It stopped before he could tell what the song was, broken off by the sound of falling books and a girl's scream. There was more silence then he heard a guy's voice.

"Quis ut Deus? Who is like God? Do you believe in God?"

David heard a girl answer, her voice trembling with fear: "No. Yes. I don't know."

He heard a loud bang, louder than the shots before. Had the attacker switched weapons? The boy crammed under the copier didn't know guns very well but he was pretty sure the shooter had at least two of them. David felt a trickle of moisture run down his jaw. He was sweating profusely but he was freezing cold. He started to shake from the chill and tried to stop. He was afraid the trembling would shake the copy stand, which was mounted on wheels. He didn't want to give away his position. He was already too exposed as it was.

More loud bangs followed, one and then another. The sound of footsteps was loud in the silent library. Then David heard Kyle's voice.

"Hey!"

What was he doing?! David tensed up but he couldn't see anything from where he was hiding.

"That's enough!" Kyle's voice cracked. "Get outta he-"

There was a pop of a handgun being fired and nearby another girl screamed and started crying out, "Oh, God! Oh, God!"

David heard a shell casing hit the floor. He thought he heard the gunman reload. Then there was loud crashing noise - the sound of a table being flipped over. The crying girl - was that Chloe's voice? - started screaming. Begging. It _was_ Chloe. She got one wail of a question out: "Why?!" and then a shotgun blast silenced her.

"Are there any more jocks in here?" the gunman hollered into the library.

David wasn't on any of the sports teams but he had many friends who were so he wore a Wolverines baseball cap. It was a school-wide symbol for jocks and school team supporters. He took the hat off and quietly shoved it under the copy stand. The move must have made some noise because soon after David heard the heavy boots coming his way.

He started to pray.

Then he saw the shooter's face.

"Peek-a-boo," the guy said, aiming the shotgun at David's head.

The shooter's eyes were cold and dark. His face was streaked with blood. It looked like he'd been cut up by something, maybe shrapnel or broken glass. Even still, David recognized him. He didn't actually know him but he had seen him around. He'd seen him at the track meets. The guy was on the track team. What was his name? His name was... His name was...

"Tate!" blurted David.

The other teen blinked and looked a little confused. A little more human. David saw a chance.

"Tate, it's me. David," he said. "From track."

"Oh," Tate said without recognition. But he lowered the gun a little. "Hi."

"What are you doing?"

Tate shrugged and gave a little smile that dimpled his cheeks but didn't reach his eyes. "Just... shooting people."

"Why?" David realized only after that he probably shouldn't have asked but he wanted to keep Tate talking. If he was talking, he wasn't shooting.

Tate laughed. It was a manic sound that didn't reassure David one bit. "Though this be madness, there is method in it," said Tate. He lifted the barrel of the gun, suddenly frigid again. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't end your suffering right now."

"I have to help my mother," David said. It was the first thing he thought of. He knew how stupid it sounded but it seemed to work.

Tate looked at him funny then he glanced away, like he was distracted by something. He moved a few steps away then, after a moment, he left completely. David wasn't sure if he was safe or not. He crouched there under the copier for several long minutes, agonizing over whether to stay put or try to escape. When his legs started to tingle from lack of circulation he made himself move.

He crawled out of the copier stand and looked around. There were papers and books scattered all over and there was blood on everything. Kyle's body was sprawled across one of the study tables. Blood covered the surface and dripped off the edges. Chloe's body was laying nearby on the floor in a giant puddle of blood. Mr. Carmichael was on the floor over by the side door, laying in another huge pool of blood. There was so much blood all over the place, it didn't look real. And yet it was.

Then David noticed Mr. Carmichael move his hand. The teen started to go over to him but the teacher, white as a sheet, waved him away. "Go get help!" he said in a desperate whisper. "Run! Go! Now!"

David ran for his life.

**...**

**░A░m░e░r░i░c░a░n░ ░H░o░r░r░o░r░ ░S░t░o░r░y░**

**...**

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Author's Note:

This chapter (and episode) is riddled with all kinds of hidden things. David is the middle name of Columbine shooter Eric Harris. "Quis ut Deus?" is a double reference: Eric loved Latin and he loved comparing himself to God (Ich bin ein Gott!- I am God - is something he wrote in a friend's yearbook.) and he also used the phrase "Si vis pacem para bellum" as his personal motto (If you want peace, prepare for war). Quis ut Deus is Latin meaning "Who is like God?". It is also the literal translation of the name of the archangel Michael. "Though this be madness, there is method in it." is from Shakespeare's _Hamlet_.

If you know anything about the Columbine High shooting, I'm sure you've caught more embedded symbolism. Westfield was so closely based on the Columbine tragedy that, in the show, you can see (if you pause it) references to the Trench Coat Mafia, both of the shooters and Littleton in the Search Results that Violet pulls up about Westfield.

I know people who were at the school when the shooting happened so I'm using this fic as my personal dumping ground for all the crap I've been carrying with me the past 14 years. I apologize if it offends anyone but if you're reading AHS fanfic and have gotten this far in mine, I'm gonna guess you're a little tougher than that.

Next chapter: Ben and Tate finally talk about Westfield. _Really_ talk about it. You don't want to miss this therapy session.


	2. Chapter 2 - Straight Talk Only

**2018 - September 28**

Ben woke on his own, without help from his patient. That was significant enough to wake him even quicker than being prodded. But Tate hadn't left. He was sitting on the far edge of the bed, his back to the therapist, chewing his fingernails.

"Good morning," said Ben.

"I had a dream about Violet last night," Tate responded, skipping formalities.

Ben pushed himself up and rubbed sleep from his eyes. "Yeah? What do you remember?"

Tate turned his head and Ben saw that he was in teen form.

"She pretty much said the same thing you did," Tate said. "She said she wouldn't forgive me until I settled up with Westfield."

The therapist already knew what she'd said since he'd fed dream-Violet her lines. What she said wasn't quite what Tate took from it but, as usual, it was close enough that he didn't bother clarifying.

"How does that make you feel?"

Tate gave a short laugh. "How do you think it makes me feel?" He looked at Ben. Self-doubt and disgust registered on the teen's face briefly. "I guess... I guess I have to settle up." Tears sprang to his eyes but they didn't fall.

Ben had underestimated how quickly his patient would react. It told on how strong Tate's feelings were for Violet. "How are you going to do that?"

Tate didn't respond immediately. He didn't have an answer. "I don't know," he admitted at last, shoulders sagging.

Ben saw opportunity. He got up and moved around the bed to the side where Tate was sitting with his hands gripped tightly in his lap. Ben sat down beside him and put an arm around his shoulders. In the recent past when he did that, Tate leaned toward him. Not now. He just sat there under Ben's arm like a statue.

"If you don't remember doing something," Tate said after a moment. "And you never wanted to do it in the first place... Why does it still count?"

Ben didn't want to answer that question but he knew he had to. "Sometimes it doesn't. But... Tate. People died. A lot of people. You owe it to yourself to understand what happened, if nothing else."

"How?" Despite the tears that slid down his face, Tate's voice was steady.

After a moment of thought Ben suggested, "The internet."

Tate looked at him then, confused.

"Why don't we start with the internet?" the doctor suggested. "Maybe we can find some answers on the web and go from there? There's lots of information about the Westfield event online."

"There is?" Tate wasn't sure if he believed that. He still didn't really understand the internet, not having much exposure to it since Violet left his world.

"Trust me," Ben assured. "I'll get one of the laptops next session-"

"No," interrupted Tate. "I want to do it now."

"Now?"

Tate shrugged. "Today. I'm tired of running, doc." He smiled but it was fake and dripped with tears. "I'm tired of wondering what's real. I'm tired... of being afraid of what I am." He gave a short laugh or maybe he was just gulping air to keep from sobbing. Even he wasn't sure.

Ben looked at his patient for a moment. The teen's desperation struck a chord with him. It reminded Ben of himself back when Dr. Lanyon first took an interest in him. Ben felt a twinge of something like remorse, attached to no specific thing. He gave Tate's shoulders another squeeze.

"I'll track down one of the laptops," said Ben. "You want to meet me in my office in an hour?"

Tate thought about it then said, "Make it two hours. Chad'll bitch if I skip out early on breakfast."

Ben tipped his head and studied his patient's profile with interest. "You... care about that?"

Tate looked at him like he was high. "Uh. Yeah. You've had breakfast with him. You think he improves by dinner? If he starts out the day pissed off, by evening he's a fucking nightmare."

"I didn't know," said Ben, managing not to chuckle. He found it amusing that Chad would let something as small as Tate leaving breakfast early ruin his day. But it rang true to the man's nature.

"You'd know if you had dinner with us," reminded Tate.

"Ask Chad."

Tate tapped his chin thoughtfully. "How about you ask him?"

"Why?"

"He won't think you're trying to stir up trouble."

Ben couldn't help laughing at that. "Oh, he won't?"

The teen shrugged again and a small but genuine smile came out. "He trusts you."

"But not you?" asked Ben.

Tate looked at him piercingly. "Do you?"

The question hung in the air too long. There was no help for it. "To a certain extent," Ben said carefully. "But where meals are concerned? No. Not after breakfast. But I have to admit I knew better."

To his relief Tate's smile blossomed into a grin. "Yeah, you did say all hell would break loose."

"Yeah," agreed Ben. "And for that very reason I think I'll pass on asking Chad about dinner. But if you ever would like to invite me, I'd be happy to accept."

"So I decided what I'm going to do," said Tate, shifting subjects without warning.

Ben was fairly used to that quirk and after a last bracing squeeze he released the youth. "About what?" he asked as he got to his feet. He went over and rummaged through his bag, searching for his day clothes.

"Violet. Me. Everything," said Tate, turning so he could keep the shrink in sight. "I'm going back to Westfield."

Ben stopped rummaging and looked over at his patient. "What?"

"I'm going back to Westfield," Tate repeated. "This October. When I can leave the house."

Ben straightened, suddenly and genuinely concerned. "Wait a minute, Tate. Go to Westfield? Are you sure?"

Tate gave a little nod. "What's not to be sure about? I'm gonna do what you said. I'm going to look on the internet and figure out what I need to know. Then I'm... Then I'm going to back there."

"I really think we should spend a little more time looking at how that might turn out," Ben cautioned.

"I've already thought about it," Tate said. "I don't care. I'm going."

"Tate," Ben said, very serious. "You have no idea what could happen."

"What's the worst that could happen, doc?" the teen asked with a dimpled smile. "I'm going at night when nobody'll be there. Not like I can kill anybody."

"Tate," said Ben sharply. "This isn't something to joke about. You really don't know-"

"No, YOU don't know!" Tate yelled, on his feet now. "You don't know what it's like having to be me! You don't know what I have to deal with every single fucking day! You act like you do but you just have the day pass, doc! You get to go home after visiting hours! I have to stay like this _all the time_!"

Ben was tensed, ready for anything. He hadn't seen Tate so worked up since he was coming off the sleep medication. "Just take a deep breath," he said. He could see the young man struggling to decide whether to listen to him or whatever wild impulses were driving the unhinged look in his dark eyes. Ben wished briefly that he had a sedative handy but he'd used what he brought with him last night.

"I want to help you," the therapist reminded in a calm voice.

"Then come with me!" Desperation make Tate's words crack. "Tell me what I need to know so I can make it all go away!"

He crumpled then, hugging himself like he was shot. He tried to hold it in but it a sob wrenched free. It left his throat hurting with the strain of trying to repress it. He was falling again, like so many times before, going into an emotional tailspin he couldn't pull out of on his own.

Then there was a hand on his back, warm and firm and gentle. A spark of light in the darkness. He pulled a shuddery breath. He looked up, face wet with tears, and saw Ben's kind face.

"I'll go with you to the school," the doctor said. "I'll be there for you. But you need to understand what it is you're going back to."

Tate shut his eyes and a few more tears slipped out. He thought he heard sirens in the distance. Then he felt Ben's arm over his shoulders. For a moment the blond boy did nothing. He just stood there half hunched over. Feeling. Then reached up and put a hand over Ben's. The therapist was tempted to let it go at that but decided to up the ante. He caught the teen's hand and used it to tug him into an embrace. Tate resisted only a little then planted his face against Ben's chest and hugged back, getting his shirt wet. He liked the way Ben smelled: Clean and strong and like a dad should.

They stayed that way for who knows how long before Ben gave Tate a gentle pat and released him. "You should get down to breakfast before they wonder. I'm going to go find one of the computers. Come to my office this afternoon - two-ish - and we'll do some research. All right?"

Tate nodded then he shrank to boy form. He still looked red-eyed and puffy. "Thanks, Doctor Harmon."

Ben waved the thanks away. "Go clean up. I'll see you later."

...

When later came Ben was prepared. He not only had one of the laptops but he'd spent the day researching. He had, of course, done some of that back when he found out who Tate Langdon really was but Ben had so many bigger things going on in his life back then, he hadn't spent much time looking at details.

It was quite a story.

After Tate joined him, again in teen form, Ben had him sit beside him on the leather couch. The computer was on the coffee table, open and facing them. Ben folded his hands between his knees and looked at Tate.

"What's the last thing you remember before you died?"

Tate's brow furrowed briefly. He hadn't expected that question but he quickly realized where Ben was going with it. "I don't know... Um." He scrunched one eye shut, regarded the ceiling and thought hard. "I guess..."

Memories started to filter through in flashes. Pacing the floor of his bedroom. Pacing, pacing. Not sleeping.

"I couldn't sleep."

"The night before?" Ben prompted. He picked up the notebook beside him and jotted that down.

Tate nodded. He shut his eyes and tried to focus on the memories but it was like trying to make out a radio signal through static. "I wasn't- I was having trouble sleeping all week. All month. Bad dreams." Larry. Lawrence. Beau. He opened his eyes, opened them real wide. "I got some... I got some crystal from this guy I met in the school parking lot. I thought maybe it would make me feel better."

Ben quietly took notes. Seeing Tate with the bullshit stripped away was intriguing to him. "Crystal meth. Did it make you feel better?"

The teen snorted softly. "I don't know. I don't remember."

"So... you took the drugs and immediately after you don't remember anything?"

Tate thought about it again. "I did the stuff and I remember the alarm clock going off. Then there's just nothing till I was standing outside the school. I had, um. I had my duffel bag. And... I had a gun in my other hand. And I could see the school. All the cars."

"Where did the gun come from?" asked the therapist.

"I had it in my room."

"When did you get it?"

Tate glanced sideways at him and his expression was the same disoriented, sleepy look Ben had seen on him when he was waking up in the morning after sedation.

"I... Got it a few months before."

Ben's brows inched up. "So you had the gun for a while. What about the other two?"

Tate stared at him.

Ben motioned to the computer in a silent explanation for his inside knowledge. "You had three guns with you that day, Tate. Do you remember that?" He paused, then corrected himself: "Did you get those guns the day you went to the school? Or did you get them beforehand?"

"I... I got them before," said Tate. He could see the trap now but it was too late.

The doctor nodded curtly. "What were you thinking when you started stockpiling weapons, Tate?"

Tate looked at the computer even though there was nothing on the screen. "I don't know. I was thinking weird around then. I guess I was thinking... I was thinking I wanted to be ready."

"For what?"

"For... whatever," Tate shrugged. He stared unblinking at the computer screen. "I wanted to kill Larry. I knew a guy at the pizza place I hung out at who got me the handgun. But I just... It was just dreaming, you know?" He looked at Ben then, nose wrinkled faintly in self-disgust. "But then the guy said he could get me this shotgun. And it looked all bad-ass. He had both of them with him. I had the money so..."

"Jesus," muttered Ben. "He just gave you guns for cash, without any paperwork or anything?"

Tate shrugged and looked at him owlishly. "Isn't that how you sell stuff?"

Ben eyed him. "I have a feeling you know more about gun laws that that."

Tate had the grace to look caught. "Fuck gun laws. Nobody follows them. Nobody follows any laws in this country except the ones they want to. Red lights, incest, whatever."

"Incest?"

Tate shrugged. "Murder. Whatever. People do whatever they want. It's just stupid ones that get caught."

Ben frowned at his patient. "Tate. You were shot by a SWAT team in your house."

Catching the direct implication, Tate scowled. "I'm not stupid."

At that Ben set his notepad and pen down, sat back and just looked at the teen.

After a few moments the silence began to bother Tate. "What?"

"Nothing," Ben said, pursing his lips briefly as he shook his head. "I just noticed you'd slipped back into your act and figured I may as well get comfortable and enjoy the performance."

Tate was not amused. He remembered a conversation he had with Patrick about Guinea pigs and rabbits. "I'm not performing."

"Cut the bullshit, Tate," Ben said, unimpressed. "You didn't bring home three guns to kill your stepfather with."

"He wasn't my stepfather!" Tate said, kicking the coffee table hard enough to scoot it back a few inches and rattle the laptop. "He was just my stupid cunt mother's stupid prick boyfriend!"

"You didn't bring home three guns to kill your mother's boyfriend with," Ben said mildly, refusing to let the latest violent outburst throw him off. He did make a note of it though.

Tate simmered down and clasped his hands tightly between his knees. "One gun for each of them."

"Each of..?" Then Ben got it. "Are you saying you were going to kill your whole family?"

Tate was tempted to go with that. It sounded kind of neat and cold-blooded. But he liked his family too much to lie about something like that for long.

"No," he admitted. He fiddled with the silver snake ring on his thumb. "I wanted to be like a warrior. I wanted people to be afraid when they saw my arsenal."

"So you collected guns you were never planning to use?" Ben didn't believe that.

Tate smiled at him. "No. I thought about using them, especially on Larry. I just never... It never really seemed real. It was like a pretend game. The guns were just the equipment." He remembered how much power the handgun gave him the first time he fired it. He felt his hand twitch, wanting to fire it again just to feel that rush. "It was just how I de-stressed. I wasn't actually going to do it."

"But you _did_ do it."

The words hung there till Ben pulled up the browser. He had a few bookmarks but he started with one that was mostly text. He pushed the computer closer to Tate.

"It's a description of what happened that day," said the doctor. "As best as they could piece together from the evidence. There weren't any cameras inside the school at the time so some of it's guesswork and forensics."

Tate looked at him for a moment then scooted to the edge of the couch and started to read.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

The title of this chapter is a reference to _A Nightmare on Elm Street 3_. The psychiatrists would start group therapy sessions with their sleep-deprived patients by saying: "Straight talk only in this room." Which basically meant the kids were supposed to be honest and not hide behind bullshit and posturing.

There was a subtle reference to Jewel's song _Under the Water_ in there. It came from the movie _The Craft_, which also made it into the Coven one-shot I just posted. I think my subconscious wants to see it again.

I'm still not sure why Tate got all the guns. I think maybe he doesn't even know. Or maybe he was lying to Ben. I just don't know!

Next chapter Violet and Ben have a chat then it's time for October to take center stage. The ghosts are anxious for shore leave, starting with Constance. What'll happen when she takes Michael to the cemetery during the month of Samhain?


	3. Chapter 3 - Family Feuds

**After the therapy session. . .**

"Dad?" Violet said from the doorway of the office a few hours later.

Ben looked up from the notebook he was reviewing and smiled. "Hey, honey."

She came in but she didn't look happy. She was wearing an over-sized sweater that hid her hands and she fiddled with the ends as she moved closer. She stopped several feet away from his desk where he was sitting.

"What's going on?"

Her question could be interpreted as a general greeting except for the strained look on her face.

"What do you mean?" Ben asked, a furrow of concern appearing between his brows. There were only a few reasons she might ask something like that but he wasn't going to guess.

She folded her arms, making the large sweater bunch up around her chest. "Mom said you were staying in here now."

The corner of his mouth twitched down. "Yeah. We're... taking a break."

"A break?" Violet said, incredulous. "From what? You hardly see each other as it is!"

Ben's frown grew. "Violet-"

She could tell just by that one word that he wasn't going to say anything she wanted to hear. "Billie Dean said we need to act more like the living. She said if we don't we'll lose it, dad. I don't want to end up like Nora and Charles! Or worse! I don't want you and mom to either!" Tears glimmered in her eyes, evidence of her passion. They didn't fall.

Leave it to his daughter to present him with an argument Ben didn't have a convenient response to. She was always challenging him in ways no other person did. "Violet, honey, our problems started long before we were ghosts."

She couldn't argue that. But she would try. "Do you love mom?"

Ben hesitated. "Of course I do," he said.

But she'd caught the pause. She shook her head and then looked down at the floor. Her straight hair fell in a curtain around her face, hiding it from him. "You don't have to lie, dad. Not to me."

That hurt. "I love your mother," he insisted. He thought he meant in it.

"If you love her, why are you staying in here?" demanded Violet, glaring at him now. The anger didn't hide the pain.

"People need space," he said. "If we were a normal family, your mother and I could get out and have that space. But we can't. And right now, we need that space so we're having to make it as best we can."

Violet sensed it was a bullshit answer but he'd worded it in his fancy shrink talk so well that she found it hard to find a spot to pick at. She folded her arms again. "For how long?"

Ben knew he'd won that round. "I don't know, sweetie. Probably through Halloween."

She rolled her eyes to the side and tried not to look as miserable as she felt inside. "Through Halloween." She focused on him again, suddenly suspicious. "Why through Halloween?"

"Things are always strangest around that time," said Ben reasonably. "If we keep our distance, there's less chance of anything bad happening."

And again he made so much sense that Violet had to believe him. But she didn't have to like it. "Then you're going to try and work things out?"

He smiled reassuringly. "Of course. This is just a temporary thing."

He wanted to hug her but he wasn't sure that would go over so well so he stayed put in his office chair. Violet didn't look any happier but she did look a little less perturbed.

"Don't hurt mom," she said at last. Her tone was flat but there was a plea buried in it.

"I wouldn't hurt you mother."

Violet wasn't convinced. She just looked at him for a moment then turned and left. Ben let the fatherly mask drop once he was sure she was gone. A frown line appeared between his brows. He steepled his index fingers, tapped his chin with them and thought dark thoughts.

**...**

**2018 - October 1**

Constance tied her sheer yellow head scarf over her hair and checked her reflection in the oval hall mirror. She had reduced the puffiness under her eyes that morning. She was growing impatient with the subtle de-aging process but she was too proud to be so obvious as to reverse age all at once.

"Hurry up, Michael," she said without looking away from herself.

She was answered with a thunder of feet on the stairs. Her grandson charged down the stairs, a backpack slung over one shoulder and a toy in his other hand.

"You got everythin'?" asked Constance, finally turning away from the mirror.

"Yeah," said Michael. "I couldn't find my T-rex so I got my magnifying glass instead. I want to see bugs close up. There's bugs at the cemetery, isn't there?"

"Of course, sweetheart," said Constance, only half listening. "Let's go."

"What about Father Jeremiah?"

"He's helpin' Billie Dean to the airport," she said.

They took the bus to the graveyard since Father Jeremiah had the car. For Constance it was refreshing to be out and about. It felt like stretching her legs after sitting for too long. It was also nice to catch the eye of the bus driver. He was much too old for her tastes and not attractive but she liked the attention regardless so she gave him a smile when she slid her money into the drop box slot.

Michael took a window seat and watched the scenery roll by with the interest only a child could muster. When they arrived at the fenced-in expanse of grass Michael ran ahead while Constance pulled her cigarettes and lighter out of her purse.

"Come on, Mama Constance!" Michael urged.

"There's no rush," she said once she had her cigarette lit. She tucked her lighter away and added in a sarcastic undertone to herself: "It's not like they're goin' anywhere."

They entered the cemetery and followed the narrow winding road around a small pond. Michael looked around warily for water fowl but there were none. He did spot some interesting mushrooms but before he could even steer that way, Mama Constance told him not to touch them.

Once past the pond they were surrounded by banks of graves, marble markers placed low and flat against the ground. No fancy headstones or obelisks. Michael darted about, reading the graves to see who was buried beneath them. He cleared debris off of some that needed it. He righted a pinwheel on one grave and on another he admired a candle that was lit and half-melted atop the plaque.

Beyond those graves stood the taller, older monuments. Constance left the paved road when she saw the familiar area. But the pair didn't go directly to the obelisk where Bertie was buried. Constance paused by the plaque in the ground that had her own name on it. She shouldn't have.

Seeing her own name there made her ghostly heart constrict so hard and fast it wrenched a sob from her throat. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she clutched at her chest. She didn't understand why it hurt so much, seeing that there. Seeing the date and her name beside Addie's. She really was dead. She fell to her knees and cried so hard she hurt on the outside almost as much as she did on the inside.

Then there were gentle hands on her shoulders. It helped so much, that touch. "Oh, Michael," she gulped. "Mama's sorry-"

"It's all right, 'heart," said Bertie.

Constance looked up all red-rimmed and wet faced, and even though she'd come to see Great Aunt Bertie, it was still a surprise to actually make that contact. She got to her feet clumsily only to collapse into her relative's open arms.

"Oh, Aunt Bert!" she said. "Michael said he'd seen you and I would have come sooner but-"

"It's okay, cher," Bertie insisted in a kindly tone. She patted Constance's back like she would a toddler. "We're all bound to the places we're bound. That you came to see me at all means the world to me."

Eventually they released each other and Constance pulled a handkerchief from her purse to wipe her face with. "I don't know what came over me."

Bert smiled and watched while her grand-niece composed herself. "It's not easy for anyone. I've seen some who've been inconsolable for weeks. Years. I'd say y'should be glad that you're not locked here but... I know where you are."

Constance tucked the handkerchief back into her purse and glanced around. "Where's Michael?"

...

Michael was used to seeing Constance in all states of hysteria but her meltdown at her grave site unnerved him with its sheer passion. So when Bertie appeared to comfort her the boy slipped away to leave them to their moment. It was the reason they'd come to the cemetery: So Mama Constance could see her Great Aunt Bert.

Michael wanted to meet some of the other ghosts Bertie said lived in the cemetery but, at a glance, he didn't see any. So he wandered further away in search of them. He went past trees and bushes and lots of headstones till he was in one of the oldest sections of the graveyard. The tombstones were all very ornate and very aged, many blackened and cracked from erosion.

It was there, sitting on a stone bench with the name Posey carved on it, was a little girl about Michael's age. She was so small on the marble bench that her feet didn't reach the ground. She swung her legs and her black patent leather Mary Janes shone in the sunlight. She was plucking the petals from a flower and humming to herself.

"Hi," Michael said as he approached her. "I'm Michael."

She looked up from her flower in surprise. "You can see me?"

Michael smiled. "Uh-huh. Are you a ghost?"

The little girl looked sad. "Uh-huh. Are you?"

Michael thought about saying yes just so she wouldn't look sad but he didn't figure he could convincingly be dead so he shook his head. "I'm alive. I just can see ghosts. My Mama Constance is one."

The little girl didn't know his Mama Constance from General Grant but she smiled anyway. "My grandpappy's one too."

That meant they had something in common. "Want to play?" Michael asked.

She smiled bigger. "Okay."

She dropped the half-plucked flower without further thought. She had all the time in the world for flowers but this was the first friend she'd made in nearly 100 years. She hopped down off the bench. She wore a fancy funeral dress that made Michael think of wedding gowns.

"What do you want to play?" he asked her.

She moved over to him and looked at him. She was a little shorter than him. Her dark blond hair curled gently around her face as she smiled up at him. Michael decided he loved her when he saw her smile like that.

"Can we play hide and seek?" she asked sweetly.

"Okay," agreed Michael. "You can't turn invisible though."

She nodded. "Count to twenty."

He nodded back and glanced around. He found a suitable tree nearby and darted over to it. He folded his arms on the trunk and pressed his face against them. He started counting. When he was finished he looked around. Of course he didn't see the little ghost girl anywhere. He started to search. He looked behind bushes and large tombstones. He was beginning to wonder if she'd cheated and turned invisible when he heard her giggle.

He looked around but still didn't see her. He circled a whole oak tree and when he didn't find her he folded his arms. He was getting frustrated. Then he heard her giggle again. It sounded like she was right above him. So he looked up.

There she was, straddling one of the widest branches of the tree, black shoes swinging. She leaned over a little and her hair fell around her sweet face like a dark blond cloud.

"You found me!" She hopped down out of the tree then, defying gravity as she floated down to stand beside him. "It your turn to hide."

Michael grinned really big and waved her toward the tree. "Your turn to count!"

As soon as she was in position and counting Michael ran off to hide.

...

It didn't take Constance long to orient on her grandson. She found that she could sense where he was if she focused on him, just like she could with Travis and Tate inside Murder House. All mothers should have such a sense built in, she was sure.

"You spoiled my hiding spot!" complained Michael when she and Bert found him hiding half inside a juniper bush.

"You're gettin' mud all over your pants," Constance said, bending to brush grass from his knees. "What are you doin' in there anyway?"

"I was hiding and you're spoiling it!"

Constance frowned. She didn't like the attitude he was giving her, regardless of its reason. "You don't need to be hidin' in the bushes," she said. "We're here to visit Aunt Bert."

"Hello, Michael," Bertie smiled.

Michael set a little of his irritation aside to send a finger-wave to her. Then he frowned up at Constance again. "You spoiled the game."

She frowned right back. "I think it's time to go home."

His chin hardened as he fought a pout. "No."

That did it. "Oh, yes." Constance reached out and grabbed hold of his upper arm.

"NO!" howled Michael. He stomped his feet but she used the motion to haul him closer. "I don't wanna go hoooooooome!"

"I'm sorry, Auntie," apologized Constance. She grabbed her struggling grandchild with both hands but didn't look at him. "I think it's his naptime. I'll come back later when Jeremiah's home to watch him."

Great Aunt Bert looked sad but she understood and nodded. "Take care of your family," she said. "I'll be here, 'heart." She would have said something to Michael but he was so far into his tantrum that she knew he wouldn't hear her. She didn't mind. She understood children.

Constance wasn't quite as understanding. Once she'd said her goodbyes she left the cemetery, pulling the screaming boy with her. When they were outside the gates she stopped, turned him toward her and focused her full glare on him.

"I can't believe you!" she said in a tone meant to shame. "I never get to see my Great Aunt Bert! How could you act this way!"

"You spoiled my game!" he screamed back. "I want to play with Posey!" He never did ask the girl her name. He just assumed it was Posey since that was the name on the bench where he'd found her sitting.

"You're not playin' with Posey," Constance said meanly. "We're goin' home."

She dragged him away from the cemetery. He might have been able to pull away if he really exerted himself. She was stronger as a ghost but Michael's strength was supernatural as well. However, the emotional ties she'd looped around him over the years held him much tighter than her hand could. He went with her, even though he didn't want to.

"I hate you!" he said and burst into noisy tears.

"You're definitely havin' a nap when we get home," she said as she tugged him over to the bus stop.

He cried harder and kept as much distance from her as she would let him until they got home. She would've sent him to his room but as soon as they got home he ran up there without prompting and slammed his door. He threw himself on his bed and had a good long cry.

He hated his life. He had no friends. He couldn't go to school. Every time he found someone to play with Mama Constance stopped him. He was starting to think maybe there was something wrong with him. He just wanted to be like everybody else but everybody else got to play and go to school and go on vacation. Those things weren't a part of his life. They were a fairy tale and he didn't understand why he didn't deserve them. He cried himself out eventually but he continued to lay there, hugging his pillow and wondering what was so flawed in him that he couldn't be like everyone else.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

Poor little antichrist. The only thing worse than the devil incarnate is the grandmother of devils.

This and the next chapter are amazingly Tate-free. He's actually let other characters have the screen! But don't expect that to last. He likes having your attention.

Next chapter: Ghouls' night out continues and gets kinky! Join Patrick and Nikki at the Stockroom, L.A.'s first and best store for leather, latex, bondage gear and - of course - black rubber suits.


	4. Chapter 4 - The Stockroom

**Later that evening...**

Los Angeles never seemed so alive to Patrick. The sun had set so all the businesses on the strip had their lights on and their wares out. Instead of drab daylight the night was made bright with neon colors and flashing bulbs.

The two-story red building that housed the Stockroom looked plain by comparison to some but the stark white mannequins trussed up in bondage gear and blindfolds were impossible to miss. They flanked the black door that led into the shop. Pat held it open for Nikki. He hadn't been to the place since he'd died but it still looked the same. White walls were a stark contrast to the black sheer curtains that hung over the 2-story multi-paned windows on either side of the door. A fancy black chandelier suspended from the center of the ceiling lit the vaulted room. Along the staircase that led to the 2nd floor small black frames lined the wall, displaying photos of notable people dressed in gear from the Stockroom.

Nikki paused at a glass case near the entrance to examine the high-ticket items locked within but she wasn't really looking with herself in mind. She was there to be a shopping buddy to Patrick. He led the way past a couple of other glass displays, looking over the contents of each before stopping in front of one. Far in the back Patrick saw what looked like a twin to the rubber suit that had been at Murder House. He purposefully ignored it and focused on what was in front of him. He tapped lightly on the case, over what he had his eye on.

"Oh," said Nikki, leaning in to get a better look. She had to sweep her hair back out of the way to see. "Those?"

"Yeah," Patrick said. "An old kink."

She smiled. "Roses. How romantic."

A fellow came up to them on the other side of the glass case. In any other place his black mohawk, head tattoos and multiple piercings would exclude him from employment. Here they were considered badges of expertise. He wore a skin-tight black bondage shirt that hugged his toned physique in a way that both Nikki and Patrick appreciated.

"Those work a lot better with this," he said knowledgeably and set a metal band on top of the glass case.

His potential up-sells leaned in closer. The clerk smiled, warming to the moment. "See this here?" he said, pointing to a raised area that had a hole through it. "That's where you attach this." He pushed a thin metal rod through the narrow tunnel. The tip of it hooked inward and was also a hollow tunnel. "See?"

The appreciative sounds they made let the salesman know he'd scored a hit.

"What keeps it in place?" asked Pat.

"Is it something you can leave in?" added Nikki.

"Here's how it stays," the man said, demonstrating with a twist of a tiny screw in the side of the first little tunnel. "You can leave the crown on forever, if you want," he said, tapping the ring. "As long as you practice good hygiene. You probably don't want to leave the thru-piece on when you're not using it though. It's really just to make things easier when you're actually playing."

"All right," Pat agreed. "I'll take the lot."

He didn't ask about the price; most people who shopped the Stockroom didn't. It was an elite bondage and discipline boutique. Nothing there was cheap unless there was a rummage sale on outdated and unwanted items.

"Oh, I'd like one of the crowns too," Nikki said, enchanted.

The clerk looked sad. "Oh, sorry. This is the last one we have in stock. But we're getting another shipment in two weeks if you'd like me to hold one aside for you."

"Shoot," the woman said. "What're the odds of running out of something like that?"

"Oh, you'd be surprised," the clerk confided. "We had twelve horse speculums on Monday. Now we're down to just one. And that rack of vinyl corsets over there was three racks just two days ago. It's amazing how quickly we go through products."

"Horse speculums?" Nikki repeated. Even she was thrown by that one, despite all she'd experienced.

The clerk nodded. "Who knew there was such a demand?"

...

Back in the library, Patrick gave the adjustable spreader bar an experimental pull to make sure it was locked in place. It wouldn't do to have it self-adjusting at the wrong moment. Attached to the ceiling by a thick length of chain, it looked a bit like an oversized trapeze. The bar withstood the initial tug test.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

He looked over at Nikki. She had stripped down to her undergarments: A black lacy bra, sheer black stockings and a black garter belt. She wore no panties. Her long dark hair fell loose over her shoulders; her milk-white skin made her a study in contrasting colors similar to the Stockroom. She wore a pair of simple mink-lined bondage cuffs on her wrists.

"I'm ready," she smiled.

Her expression and tone were steady but inside her heart was racing. It had been several decades since she'd been with a man other than her husband and much longer since she'd agreed to allow herself to be topped by any man, directly. But it was the only way Patrick would agree to the arrangement and the temptation was too alluring to resist.

Pat beckoned to her. She sauntered over and stood beneath the bar, with a quick upward peek to be sure she was aligned correctly. He took her right arm and with a click fastened the cuff's link to the ring on the spreader bar. He let his hand trail over her skin as he moved to the other arm and did the same with it.

With that last click her heart jumped. She was locked in now. Nikki had been a ghost practicing bondage long enough to know that restraining a spirit hinged on the willpower of the ghost doing the binding. She knew from early experimentation that she wasn't strong enough to break her husband's restraints.

"What does your husband think about this?" Patrick asked her as he moved around behind her, almost like he knew what she was thinking.

Her lips tugged in a tiny smile. "He wanted to be involved," she admitted. She turned her head so she could see him.

"Face forward," corrected Patrick and she did. "Were you and he swingers when you were alive?"

"Yes," she said. "Not as much after we were married though."

He found the crop Nikki purchased at the Stockroom and hefted it. It was light, thin and rigid. Not his style of tool. He preferred leather that could cover a broad area at once. But the implement, like the company, was a matter of convenience. Both were available and so it made sense that the two should be brought together.

"What did you tell him you were doing tonight?" He drew the crop across her pert, bare bottom, letting her feel the cool stiffness of the rod.

She gave an involuntary shiver of delight. "I told him we were testing some equipment you got at the Stockroom."

"Is that when he asked to join?" asked Patrick. He brushed the crop between her thighs, stroking it down the left one to her knee.

"Ah," she said, losing focus. "Yes."

"What did you say then?"

She took a little too long answering; he swiped the crop across her backside, leaving a red stripe and making her yelp.

"I told him I didn't think you'd be comfortable with that," she gasped.

He smiled at her reaction. "Are you afraid he'll go gay?"

She tried to look at him then but he struck her ass again. "Face forward," he said, more sternly this time.

"I'm not afraid of that," said Nikki. She curled and uncurled her fingers in time with the throbbing of the welts. "He's been with men before."

"So... You wanted me for yourself?" Patrick asked very close to her ear.

She wanted to turn her head, to press her lips to his, but he was being very insistent on her facing forward. So she resisted. The effort made her tremble. "Yes."

"You know you can't keep me," he said. His voice was like a caress.

"Of course," she said. "I only have room for one kept boy anyway."

He struck her with the crop again, delivering another stinging stripe below the first two. She cried out in pain. The chain supporting the spreader bar rattled.

"I'm no good at being a kept boy," said Patrick.

He ran the crop between her thighs, up the right one this time, all the way up. She let her head fall back. Her dark hair brushed the top her hips.

"You are a bad boy," she agreed.

He smiled and took a fistful of her glossy hair and pulled her head back more. Not rough, just back enough to see her face. She met his eyes and begged him to take her. He gave her a light kiss, just a quick contact of lips, then he released her hair.

"You'd know all about bad," he said as he rubbed the crop against her crotch, slow and gentle. Teasing.

"Mmm," sighed Nikki. She let the bar support her as she swayed, trying to rub herself more firmly against the tool. "I'm as bad as they come."

He obliged her with the crop, applying more pressure for her to grind against. "How would your husband feel if I fucked you right now?"

She moaned softly, needful. But that wasn't answer enough. The crop lashed across her rear, pulling a sharp yelp from her. "He wouldn't like it," she admitted.

He moved the crop back up between her thighs and began to stroke her with it more purposefully, dragging the smooth surface over her clit.

"I won't fuck you," he said, real close again. "Unless he's present and says it's okay."

Nikki moaned as the ripples of pleasure intensified. "He, ah. Halloween," she managed before another moan took her.

"Halloween?" he asked without breaking rhythm.

"Here. Meet us. Here. Halloween night. Oh, god, I'm cumming!"

She gave a twitch that jerked the spreader bar and gasped, rising up on her toes for a few intense seconds before going limp. The chain held her weight. Patrick patted her striped bottom, eliciting a little groan, then he went to clean the crop off. She hung there limply till he returned, considering what she'd offered in the heat of her orgasm.

Patrick let her loose, gently helping her lower her arm so the sudden shift in position wouldn't hurt. Once she was free she set to removing the cuffs and putting her clothes back on.

"Halloween," he said, watching her. "Did you mean that?"

"Sure. Sam and I usually 'celebrate' here then. Come join us."

Pat thought about it himself. "Mind if I bring someone?"

...

* * *

Author's Note:

The Stockroom is real. It's L.A.'s oldest and best fetish shop. American Horror Story shot on-location in their store when Chad went to purchase the Rubber Man gimp suit so if you're curious what the place looks like, check it out in the first season. And yes, the place really does go through that many horse speculums. They loaned Rubber Man to the show for the duration of filming. It was, last I checked, still available for sale. I guess those suits aren't as popular as horse spreaders.

Evan Peters, Tate's actor, didn't find out he was Rubber Man till the episode where he was unmasked. He said that in order to wear the thing, you have to oil up first, which made it very cold to wear on set. It didn't flex very much and was uncomfortable in the crotch area. He also said that when he told his fellow cast members about the new plot development, they said: "Oh you're Rubber Man? Oh my God. Wow. Oh you're sick. Something's wrong with you." All in good humor, of course. As a side note, two of Peters' favorite scenes to film were the dinner scene with Larry and the scene where Constance is smacking Tate around for having sex with Vivien. It's nice to know he enjoys Tate's suffering as much as we do.

Next chapter:

We're going back to 1993 for a peek at what Tate was up to just months before the Westfield shootings. Also: Find out a little bit about the snake ring Tate wears as a teen.


	5. Chapter 5 - Downward Spiral

**1993 - August 8  
**

Robert Fredrick left his house, backpack over his shoulder and keys in one hand. As soon as he reached the driveway it started, just as he knew it would.

"You're late," said Tate.

"My alarm didn't go off," Robert grumbled as he sifted for the right key. He unlocked the car doors.

"You need a new clock," Tate's tone was joking but there was edgy seriousness underneath it. "Yours keeps 'not going off'."

Robert threw his backpack into the back seat and tried to not let the needling get to him. Tate threw his backpack in as well then started around the car. Robert got in the driver's seat and Tate slid into the passenger's side.

"Oh, man," complained Tate when the car started and he saw the clock. "Now we're going to be late _again. _You know I hate being late! Everybody stares and shit!"

Maybe it was because he didn't get enough sleep the night before or because he was just tired of hearing the same thing all the time but that morning Robert couldn't deal with it.

"God! You sound like my fucking mother!" he exploded. "In case you forgot, I'm doing this as a favor to your mom!"

"Some favor," sneered Tate. "Making me late every day."

"You don't even give me gas money!" Robert exclaimed, outraged. "You know what? Just take the fucking bus or walk. I'm not driving you anymore."

Tate stared at him for a moment and he got this weird look on his face that Robert had never seen before. He'd known the blond guy for over a year and never saw a look so cold and hateful. Then the teen got out of the car, slamming the car door behind him.

He looked like he was going to walk away so Robert put the car into reverse and started to back up. He was watching the road for cars when he heard a loud thump and felt the car rock. Surprised, he looked through the windshield and saw Tate on the hood of his car. Tate's fist came down on the glass. He must have had a rock in his hand when he struck because the windshield broke into a spider web of cracks. Robert stomped on the brake pedal and threw his arms up reflexively even though it was safety glass.

When there were no further attacks he cautiously peeked through his arms and saw Tate leering at him through the shattered glass. Robert didn't want to give him time to do more damage. Acting faster than he was thinking, the teenager hit the gas and peeled out of the driveway. Tate slid off and landed on the concrete as Robert threw the car into gear. He sailed away in a squeal of tires, leaving the other boy laughing in his driveway.

...

Robert knew he would see Tate again, too soon. Not just because they went to school together: Robert didn't have any classes with the blond guy that semester, which made it even easier to stop giving him rides. But Tate had left his backpack in the car. He would come for it.

Sure enough, that same evening they got a call from Tate's mother asking if they could drop by. Robert had already told his parents about what had happened that morning so the call didn't come as a surprise. When the doorbell rang Robert opted to stay out of sight in the living room, where he could hear but not be seen. It wasn't that he was afraid. He just didn't want to deal with Tate right then.

Robert's dad answered the door, his wife behind him. Constance Langdon stood on their porch, nicely appointed in a light peach dress and a black pea coat worn over it to match her pumps. Pearl earrings sparkled like the smile she offered the couple. Her son stood in her shadow, a pair of sullen dark eyes brooding under a mop of uncombed hair.

"Good evenin'," Constance said. "Thank you so much for lettin' us stop by. My son," she reached back and seized Tate by the oversized coat he wore and pulled him forward so they could see him. "Would like to apologize for his behavior earlier today."

Tate looked up at them and his lip pooched a little under the weight of the combined gazes of parental judgment. "I'm really sorry for breaking Rob's windshield, Mr. and Mrs. Fredrick," he said contritely. "It was a really stupid thing to do. I didn't mean anything by it, honest. I just wasn't thinking. I'll pay whatever it costs to fix it."

Mr. Fredrick, who had broken more than one window in his time when he was a boy, nodded gruffly. "You sure will."

Robert peeked around the corner and saw the group still in the doorway. Buried in his coat, Tate looked a lot less sinister than he had when he'd been grinning maniacally through broken glass.

"You're both lucky no one was hurt," Mrs. Fredrick said.

Constance's smile tightened. She could handle lecturing her own son perfectly fine without help. "Fortunately no one was."

"Please tell Rob I'm sorry?" said Tate with an apologetic smile. "I'd like to tell him myself but I totally understand if he doesn't want to see me."

Tate looked right at Robert then and for just a second Rob thought he saw evil in that smile. Then Tate was looking at Robert's mom again, all dimples and dewy eyes. The quick and subtle shifts were even more disturbing to see than the attack on his car had been. He ducked back into the living room and sat down on the floor beside the wall. A few minutes later he heard the door shut. He got up before his parents came in; he didn't want to explain why he was hiding.

His mother had her arms crossed when they came into the room. His father headed for the easy chair.

"Well that's that," he said as he sank into the seat and reached for the remote.

"I don't know," Robert's mom said. "Let's wait and see if he pays first."

"Oh, he'll pay," said his dad. "You can be sure of that."

His mom glanced back toward the entryway, dubious. "I don't know," she said again. She couldn't shake the feeling that, as nice and as sincere as the boy's words were, that something wasn't quite right.

But he did pay up and there were no further incidents, none that she ever knew of. But she never found out about how Tate posted Robert's address to local message boards encouraging people to rob and kill him and his family. They didn't know about his posting the other boy's phone number to a local dating site along with sexually explicit offers. They did receive a large influx of unusual calls but, not knowing the source, there was little they could do. Eventually those stopped as well and the matter faded... Until the shootings later that year. Then Robert's family would truly appreciate just how close they may have come to disaster.

**...**

**2018 - October 20**

"So what's that mean to you?" Dr. Harmon asked.

He and Tate had decided to do their therapy session outside, where they could see the minimal hints of the fall season in the dying grass and lengthening shadows. Ben had a cigarette lit. Tate was sitting on the low wall that ran between the posts that supported the stoop's roof.

"This?" Tate twisted the snake ring on his thumb since it seemed like that's what Ben was looking at. "Nothing really. I got it 'cause it's like the one in _Natural Born Killers_. I guess I kind of got used to wearing it."

Ben nodded. "I don't see you without it on very often. Except when you're in your younger form."

"It doesn't fit then."

Belief was a funny thing. Ben smiled. "When I was your age I had a bead necklace a girl I liked made for me. I wore that thing for months."

"What happened to it, Doctor Harmon?" Tate encouraged. He liked hearing Ben's stories.

"It broke one day while I was in the shower," said Ben. "Most of the beads went down the drain. Just as well... I hadn't seen the girl in over a month by then."

"The necklace lasted longer than she did?" Tate grinned.

"Yep," said Ben. "And considering how cheap it was, that's saying something."

They both had a laugh. It kind of felt like being alive.

...

"Do you want me to stay?" Ben asked.

They were still on the porch when the sun was starting to set and Constance came out of her house next door. She was heading their way.

Tate pulled his eyes off her and flashed a smile at the therapist. "No. I want to talk to her by myself."

Ben patted his back. "All right. You know where I'll be."

Tate nodded and looked back to his mother. Ben disappeared inside Murder House. Once the door was shut Tate looked back to his mother. She stepped into the shadows of the porch, where her son was waiting and they both looked at each other for a silent moment.

"Let's go inside," she said.

They did. She led the way to the great room, turning to face him only a few steps in.

"How.. how's Michael?" Tate asked, stopping just inside the doorway.

"He's got a broken wrist," said Constance in a dour tone.

She stepped aside, a subtle signal for Tate to come all the way into the room. He expected her to let him pass but as he did so, she grabbed his arm so hard it pinched through his flannel shirt. He gave a little yelp and tried to pull away from her but she didn't let him. Her grip was iron.

"Oww," he complained, hoping she didn't realize how tight she was holding him and would ease off on the pressure.

She stared hard at him. She didn't loosen her grip. "I can't believe you did that to him."

"I didn't mean to, mama," he whined. It was hard to find his voice, as tight as his throat was.

"Of course you didn't mean to!" she said. "If you'd meant to, he'd be dead!"

Tate's knees gave out like his legs had been cut from beneath him. He dropped to the floor but she still held onto his arm. "I'm sorry, mama!"he said, tears spilling over.

She crouched down then and, letting go of his arm, she grabbed his wet face with both of her hands and forced him to look at her. "You can't make mistakes like that, Tate! Your mistakes kill people! Do you want his blood on your hands too?"

He gave a tortured sob and when she released him, he hunkered down to hug his middle. She let him cry for a moment but she didn't let him suffer long before she grabbed him and pulled him into an awkward hug. He cried onto her shoulder, silently sobbing, and she just held him while he did.

"I'm not lettin' Michael come over here anymore," she eventually said to the teenager soaking her shoulder. She could feel his sobs increase in intensity even though he remained silent. "It's too dangerous."

"No, mama-" he croaked.

"It's too dangerous," she asserted with conviction. "I'm not losin' another child in here." She eyed the house like it might uproot and attack.

He sat back and looked at her tearfully, his blotchy face stricken. "Mama, please. Don't." More tears fell. "I won't let the house get him."

"You can't even protect him from yourself," she said.

He mashed the heels of his hands into his eyes and swallowed the cry of despair he felt pushing against his guts. "Please, mama, don't take him away! I'll do anything!"

She shut her eyes, pained by his plea. She knew his intentions were true, even if he had no capacity to follow through. So she leveled the only condition she thought he couldn't meet: "Start takin' the medication Doctor Harmon wants you to."

He really did yell then, angry and frustrated, and he slammed the back of his head against the wall too for good measure. It hurt and little sparks lit in the corners of his vision. His heart pounded and his head hurt. He cried some more.

"It's your choice, Tate," she said coldly and she got to her feet.

He tried to latch onto her but she took a step back. He flopped melodramatically on the floor, sobbing and reaching for her. She was unimpressed. She'd seen that move since he was a toddler and had built walls against it decades ago.

"It's your choice," she said again and, steeling herself against the reaction she knew he would have, she left.

Tate threw a minor fit there on the floor, crying and yelling incoherently. But without anyone to witness it, he tired quickly. Eventually he got up and trudged glumly out of the room.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

Robert Fredrick is an amalgam name, combined from _A Nightmare on Elm Street's_ Freddy Krueger and his actor, Robert Englund.

Last note I got ahead of myself. I always write at least an episode ahead so I spilled the beans about a chapter I was writing rather than the one that was coming up. Oops! Heh. I fixed that so future readers won't be misled (although they may be confused about this note).

Things are getting ugly in the house but next time won't be so bad. Not for the folks in Murder House, anyway. Next chapter we'll pick back up where we're leaving off here, then it's time for another flashback to Ben's past. We're going into the asylum with him. Won't that be fun?

If you're looking for some music to play while you're reading, check out my Profile for what I listen to while I'm writing this.


	6. Chapter 6 - Peacemaker

**2018 - October 20, cont.**

Ben was sitting on the stairs when Tate emerged from the great room. He had stayed nearby deliberately and, seeing Tate, he was glad he did. The teenager's body language told the therapist volumes even from a distance. The hunched shoulders, the stiff gait; things had gone badly. He knew Tate had been crying and, from the look on his face, was close to it again.

Tate tried to brush past him but the therapist stepped in his path and put a hand on his arm.

"Hey," Ben said gently.

The interception broke the dam. Tate's face screwed up and he started to cry again. He shoved at Ben's hand but the man didn't let go. He pulled Tate in by that arm, a bit roughly because there was resistance, then he put his arms around the younger man. He expected a struggle and he got one but it was a token flurry of helpless motion rather than the violent resistance he knew the teen was capable of. Then Tate was clinging to him, crying into his chest without reservation or self-consciousness.

And that's how they stayed for a while - seconds, minutes; time means little to spirits. When the crying jag had run its course Tate pulled away and Ben let him.

"I think there's a bowling tournament on LiveStream," he said while Tate composed himself. "You want to watch it on the laptop in my office?"

Tate looked at him real funny for a moment then he laughed suddenly and some lingering tears leaked out. "You really are funny, Doctor Harmon." He sniffled wetly. "Yeah. Okay. Sure."

They headed for the room together.

"Think Chad will notice if we take some of his gourmet popcorn?" Ben asked, half-joking.

"He notices everything in that kitchen," said Tate. "But if you distract him, I'll go get it."

Ben laughed. "We could just ask."

"Yeah," Tate agreed. "But where's the fun in that?"

Ben reached over and ruffled his hair, messing it up further. "I'll ask him. You go on to the office. If he sees you like you are, he'll pin you down and forcibly restyle you."

Tate rolled his eyes. "Don't I know it." He wasn't about to tell the doctor about the worst part of having messy hair around Chad.

They parted ways in the hall. Tate went on into the office and flopped down on the couch.

"Don't put your nasty shoes on the sofa," Hayden admonished from behind Ben's desk where she was sitting in his chair.

Tate craned his neck so he could see her. He didn't move his feet. "What're you doing here?"

Hayden smiled. She had her long hair down. She would look pretty except that psychotic glint in her eyes. "Didn't you hear? Ben left Vivien. He's mine now."

"You're dreaming," said Tate without pause to seriously consider her statement.

That irked her. "Shut up! He loves me. We're going to be together. He just needs time-"

Tate laughed and twisted his snake ring around his thumb. "Time to forget your baby's dead?"

"SHUT UP!" She was on her feet, ready to vault over the desk. The windows vibrated with the force of her anger.

"What's going on?" Ben's smooth voice sliced through the thick tension.

Both Tate and Hayden looked to the doorway where he was. They both started to talk at the same time.

"Tell him he can't talk to me like-"

"Call your bitch off, doc, she's really-"

Ben held up the hand he wasn't carrying popcorn with. "Whoa, whoa," he said. Fortunately the other two listened and stopped talking. "Hayden? I told Tate I'd watch something with him. Let's catch up later. Okay? We can do dinner."

She frowned. She wanted to say no because she didn't want to leave. She didn't want Tate to win. But it was the first time Ben had asked her to a meal with him since before she died. Her need to pretend that he loved her won out but she shot Tate a dirty look as she left. He stuck his tongue out at her then grinned when he noticed Ben looking at him.

"Don't antagonize her," said the therapist. It was more of a suggestion than an order.

"Yeah, you're right," Tate said. "She's a big enough bitch as it is."

"Tate."

"Sorry," Tate said, even though he wasn't. He sat up and scooted over a little so Ben would know where to sit - next to him. "So I was thinking. We don't have to watch bowling necessarily. Unless you want to."

"Let's watch some bowling," said Ben. He set the popcorn down on the table and went to go get the computer from his desk. "Then when it gets so dull we want to claw our eyes out we'll switch to something more interesting."

Tate looked dubious. What had he gotten himself into? "Do we have to watch it that long?"

Ben moved the laptop to the coffee table and fired it up. Then he sat down beside Tate and gave him a reassuring smile. "It's a rite of passage in the father-son set, so I hear."

Tate snorted. "Pass me the popcorn, doc. And remind me to find a better sport later."

**...**

**1977**

Ben was a mess when they brought him to Kirkbride Hills. He didn't take well to incarceration. But then he'd already been through the kiddie version of prison.

... .

Ben's earliest moments were spent trapped in an old crib in the back room of a Social Services daycare center. He, along with a half dozen other babies and toddlers, were left largely unsupervised in the cage-like crib units that lined the walls. The only time they got out of the barred enclosures was when a worker came in to dispense food and bottles - often the same thing - and change diapers where necessary. Then it was another two to three hours of prison time with only the wails of the eternally fussy crack baby to shake things up.

When Ben was old enough he stopped going to the dreaded nursery room and joined the general population in the main daycare facility. At first it was true freedom: He got to run and play and sit at a little table during snack time. But he quickly discovered how unfair life was in an environment dominated by children from bad homes with too few adults to watch them.

Ben quickly learned how to defend himself. He discovered early on that the only person who really cared about Ben was Ben. Most didn't even pretend to care. A few acted like they did but they always wanted something or else they just cared until they found something more interesting to do.

Being bright was not an asset in the world Ben was raised in. It made him painfully aware of how dull most of the others around him were. First he was frustrated with other children. Then, as he became aware of them, he realized most adults he encountered weren't very smart either. It wasn't difficult to manipulate them but his temper inevitably got him in trouble.

... .

"This isn't productive, Ben," Dr. Lanyon said.

They were meeting in a small white room. The room's only furnishings were the two chairs that they sat in. The chairs were bolted to the floor. Ben, 16, was strapped in a straightjacket and staring steadfastly at the grayish-white tiles. He was still groggy from the sedative he'd been given hours earlier. He'd gotten into a brawl with another patient and had been combative with the orderly who tried to restrain him. He had a small cut on his lip but the other patient suffered a broken nose in the fight.

"You know I like our discussions," the therapist said. His tone was gentle but disapproving. "But if you're not going to communicate with me then I'm afraid I'm going to have to end this session. Are you ready to go back to the quiet room?"

A thin line appeared briefly between the dark-haired teen's brows. Of course he didn't want to go back to the padded cell. But he also didn't want to talk about the fight.

"Why am _I_ being punished?" said Ben without looking up. He knew the doctor liked to make eye contact. "Eisenberg started it."

"Ah," said Lanyon. They were finally getting somewhere. "You know you're not being punished, Ben. Now tell me. What did Eisenberg do that precipitated the altercation?"

Even groggy Ben kept up with the stilted vocabulary, just as the therapist knew he would. "Oh, come on. You know that psycho's always starting shit with me. It's just more of the same. Somebody should just euthanize him."

"Ben," said the doctor in a calm but very stern way. "That's no way to talk about any human being."

Ben, growing more alert by the minute, would have loved to defend his position but he knew that telling the doctor how he really felt about gene pool cleansing wasn't going to get him any closer to getting out of the institution.

"Sorry, Doctor Lanyon," he said grudgingly. "It's just hard for me to see the value in a... person like that."

The doctor pursed his lips. "Some might say the same thing about you."

Ben frowned, acutely aware of the straightjacket. The unfairness of the world broadsided him again. It was cosmically unjust that he should be sitting there, trussed up, while the stupid cogs of the world were free to roam about killing each other in avoidable traffic accidents. It wasn't crazy to want to rid the world of a few bad seeds. That was common sense! People picked the worst out of everything else and threw it away. Why should people be any different?

"Is that why you put the glass in the brownies?" asked the doctor when it became obvious Ben wasn't going to say anything. "Because you felt like your housemates needed to be, eh, euthanized?"

It had been a while since Lanyon had pried at that subject so it caught Ben off guard. He made brief eye contact with the therapist before remembering he didn't want to. "I don't know," Ben dodged, looking away. "I guess. I know the world wouldn't be hurting without them."

Dr. Lanyon could draw the same line to the young man before him but he decided not to belabor his earlier point. "It's not your right to decide who lives and dies in this world, Ben." He paused, rubbed his chin, then said: "You know, if you had just squared your shoulders and kept on, you would have been released from the foster system in a little under two years. Two years and you'd have been away from those people for good. Now? You'll be lucky to be out of this place in five, at the rate you're going."

That really made Ben scowl. He forgot about his game of not looking at the doctor and focused his full glare on the man. "I don't get you! You're not like them! You're like me! Why do you stick up for _them_? Doesn't it piss you off that idiots like them, idiots like Andros," he picked Lanyon's supervisor because he knew about the bad blood between the men. "They get ahead and you're stuck trying to talk morons like Eisenberg through their mommy issues?"

Dr. Lanyon listened to his tirade and when the teen ground to a seething halt, he folded his hands. "Ben, I never tried to kill people by putting ground glass in their food and never would."

Ben flopped back in his chair with a dramatic roll of his eyes. "I know you have skeletons in your closet. I know it. I don't know what they are but don't even try to pretend you don't have them."

"Everyone does," said Dr. Lanyon. "And I hope I can teach you to better hide yours."

Ben peered at him quizzically but the therapist's expression was unreadable.

"Until we fully address your anger issues," said the doctor. "I'm prescribing you a medication that will help you control yourself."

"Oh, man," Ben groaned. He would have sank lower in the chair but the straight jacket was locked to it. He was at the end of his tether. "You're going to lobotomize me. Wonderful. Thanks, Doctor. Been swell knowing you."

" Don't be so dramatic, Ben. It's not a lobotomy. It's medication. " Dr. Lanyon sat forward. "And it's only until we've sorted out what's driving your hostility. You'll feel a lot better, trust me."

Ben went back to looking at the floor.

"All right," said Dr. Lanyon. He got up. "I'll see you tomorrow, Ben. I do hope you're feeling more cooperative then."

...

Another night spent in a padded cell in a straightjacket unable to even go to the bathroom without assistance did nothing to improve Ben's mood. He refused to take the pills like he was supposed to. He became so violently resistant that they had to resort to restraints and suppository delivery, which no one appreciated. Even still, he fought again when it was time to take more. After the second fight ended the same as the first, Ben opted to start taking the pills orally.

Ben stayed on the pills for a year. It was a hazy twelve months of breakthroughs and meltdowns. Eventually, through trial and error, Ben learned what to say and how to act. His thoughts didn't really change though the lack of energy and rage made him less inclined to get upset by what he thought. When he seemed stable enough the doctor switched him to a step-down battery of drugs.

It was all very experimental and again there were setbacks. But by the time he was free of pharmaceutical influence he'd discovered there was a lot more to life than orphanages and foster homes. He'd learned how to talk to people and tell them what they wanted to hear. With Dr. Lanyon's help he crafted a mask of normalcy to wear for others. And when he was released from the asylum three years after he entered, he left ready to make a difference in someone else's life. He wanted to help someone just like him to avoid the mistakes he'd made. To teach them what it had taken him a lifetime to learn.

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

Last chapter's title _Downward Spiral_ is also the name of one of my favorite Nine Inch Nails albums. Peacemaker - the name of this chapter - is a tongue-in-cheek nickname for the Colt .45.

I generally let a little more time pass between updates but there's two reasons behind this one coming so soon. First, I finished writing Fall pt. 2 last night so this is the celebratory chapter. Secondly, this one tied in closely to the last one and I hate leaving things hanging like that. So. Here ya go.

So there's Ben's motivation; why he sees himself in Tate. Unfortunately Ben's no Dr. Lanyon.

Next chapter: OMG. Violet and Tate. They're talking. To each other! Could there be a better Halloween treat?


	7. Chapter 7 - Halloween Preparations

**2018 - October 22**

It was finally starting to get cooler outside. That was something Tate hated about California: It was midway through October and it was still warm enough that living people had to wear shorts. Some people loved it. He just saw it as an absence of seasons. Fall didn't really exist in Los Angeles. All week it would be bright and sunny and overnight the weather would shift to winter. But not the pretty winter like up north. L.A.'s winters were gray, chilly and largely without precipitation. They were just dull and gray.

Tate stood in the shade of the gazebo, leaning on the rail. He'd hoped by showing up there that he'd get Hayden to come out. He wanted to talk to her about what she was doing messing around with Ben again. But he'd been there for nearly twenty minutes and she hadn't shown up. He suspected she was avoiding him.

Then he felt a female presence moving his way. But it wasn't Hayden.

"Tate," Violet said.

If he'd had a heart it surely would have stopped. When she said his name it was so beautiful it almost hurt. That was how he knew for certain she had said it. His imagination was never as potent as that single word from her. He'd waited so very long. So long, in fact, that he'd given up hoping she'd ever see him again.

And now she was.

"Violet?"

That was all he could get out before he choked on his own tears. There was so much he wanted to say but his insides were knotting up so tight he wanted to double over. Why did it hurt so much? She came over to him. He wanted to reach for her but he was afraid to. If he did she might vanish and he would die all over again.

"Tate," she said again and, for him, it was like a mini orgasm where the hurting just was. "You can't go to Westfield."

He blinked a few times because his eyes were so wet he could hardly see her. "W-what?" It registered slowly, what she said. How did she know?

"You can't go to Westfield," she repeated.

She touched him then. She put both her hands on his arm and it was just like sinking under the surface of the best bubble bath ever. He shut his eyes and laughed a little because he could still feel hot tears leaking out under his lashes. She was saying more words but it was hard to focus on them. He reached for her and hugged her and buried his face in her shoulder - in that sweet, soft curve between her ear and her collarbone.

She said his name again and he hugged her tighter. He wanted to kiss her. He went to act on that impulse and found her hand placed squarely over his mouth. He blinked at her in confusion over that hand.

"Tate," she said clearly. Her eyes met his and hers were as serious as he'd ever seen them. "Listen to me. "

He didn't want to talk about Westfield. He didn't really want to talk at all. Kissing was much nicer. He tried to say something to that effect but she wasn't done putting her hand over his mouth.

"You're planning to go to Westfield on Halloween?" she said. "Are you fucking serious?"

She moved her hand then and seemed to expect an answer. This was not the sort of reunion he'd fantasized about. He frowned a little.

"I've got to," he said.

"Why?"

"Because!" he flared. His eyes were leaking again but he ignored it. He didn't like how she was acting since Westfield was her idea in the first place. At least, that's how he remembered it. "You said! You said you couldn't forgive me so I'm making it all right!"

"How's that making it right?" she asked. "What are you going to do when you get there?"

He hadn't really thought that far. So he decided on the spot. "Apologize."

"Apologize?" she echoed. "You're going to go to WHS on Halloween night and apologize to people who've been waiting years to get at you. That's your plan."

Tate was hurt. Up till that very moment he had liked his plan, quite a bit. "Your dad likes it," he defended.

"My dad can be a real idiot sometimes," she dismissed dryly. "You and he are both the stupidest smart people I've ever met."

"You... waited all these years to talk to me... to tell me I'm stupid?" he said carefully. A teary smile followed. He found it kind of funny though he didn't know why.

She sighed and she acted like she was going to touch his arm again but she stopped herself. "No. I just... I think going to Westfield is a really, really bad idea. Weird things have been happening. Weirder than other Halloweens."

He shrugged and picked at the cuticle of his thumb self-consciously. "I have to go. I have to try and make it right."

She sighed. "My dad said he was going with you," she said.

"Yeah."

Ben had told her Tate's plan. That's how she knew. It amazed him that she still cared enough about him to break her silent treatment in order to try and talk him out of going. But he knew if he didn't follow through she'd just vanish again. And he couldn't bear that.

"Is anybody else?"

He shrugged. "I haven't told anybody else."

"Not even Chad or Patrick?" she asked, surprised.

He looked at her funny. "Why would I?"

"Uh," she said. It occurred to her that he hadn't told her about his situation with the gay men and now she wasn't sure if she was supposed to know. Too late. "Well. Because... You. You're their friend, aren't you?"

He peered at her then showed his dimples in the closest thing to a smile he'd offered. "Did your dad tell you about our arrangement?"

She could feel the guilt on her face. "Yeah."

He shrugged again, still smiling. "I don't care. They've been good for me, I think."

"Do they know you're going to Westfield on Halloween?"

"Well," he hedged. "No. Not yet. But I'm going to tell them."

"Tate," she said, real frustration beginning to edge in.

"Violet," he cut off whatever she was going to say. He took one of her hands then and gently squeezed it between both of his. "This is something I have to do. I can't move on until I do."

"Move on?" she repeated. "What do you mean, move on?"

He smiled and let her go, even though her hand felt like happiness. "Move on to the next thing I have to do."

"Which is?"

He looked at her woefully. He didn't want to tell her the next thing specifically. So he said instead, "There are other people I have to apologize to."

It wasn't hard to figure out what he was implying and Violet was grateful he hadn't said it directly. The situation between him and her mother wasn't an issue she was ready to tackle with him.

"If you really are going to go to Westfield on Halloween," she said after a moment. "You're going to need more backup than just my dad."

"Maybe," he admitted. "But there aren't a lot of people I can ask."

She curled her fingers up into the loose bell-shaped sleeves of her dark gray overcoat. "I'll go."

That stunned him. "You- you will?"

Violet nodded. "I don't know what help I'll be but... I'll be there."

He hugged her again and held her for a long time. Then: "Can I kiss you?"

She almost said yes because she really wanted to kiss him too but she hesitated. "Not yet."

He let her go then, reluctantly, and looked at her sadly. "I miss you _so_ much, Violet." And he was crying again.

This time tears lit her eyes as well. "I miss you too."

"Then why did you stay away so long?" he asked plaintively. "Are you going to make me go away again now?"

Her heart fractured in a new place. "No," she said. "But I am going to go to my room now and I don't want you to follow me. Not... not right now. Okay?"

Tate found her attitude strange but it was worth overlooking because he would see her again. "Okay." She started to go in the house then and he said quickly: "I love you."

She paused briefly and glanced back at him. "I love you, Tate."

Then she disappeared in the house. He sat down where he was, hard enough to hurt. Then he laughed and cried and grabbed his hair, suddenly unsure if the whole conversation even took place. He didn't dare go ask. He didn't even want to go inside yet. Not till he was sure he wouldn't be mistaken for following.

Several minutes later he got up and went inside. He went straight to his room where he spent the next few hours dreaming and masturbating and being happier than he had in years.

...

**2018 - October 29**

Gladys stood at the edge of the hole in the backyard. She, like so many other of the house's weaker spirits, had finally succumbed to the pull of it. Almost everyone she saw regularly in the house was gone now. Maria, the twins, Phil the exterminator... The only friends she saw anymore were Travis and Beth and they were so wrapped up in each other Gladys always felt awkward when she was with them.

It wasn't suicide, she told herself. She was already dead. And now she could hear Maria's voice whispering from the hole, calling for Gladys to join her. Where ever she was, Maria didn't sound unhappy. It couldn't be any worse than being stuck in a depressing house alone for all eternity.

The chubby girl squared her shoulders and took a breath.

"Gladys," the hole whispered in Maria's voice. "Come with me, Gladys."

"I am," said the nursing student. Then she took a step forward and then jumped feet-first into the hole.

That same afternoon a work crew showed up and filled the hole in.

...

**2018 - October 30**

Ben and Chad were in the dining room where Chad had newspaper spread out over one half of the mahogany claw-foot table. There was a giant pumpkin centered on it and several smaller gourds in a pile off to the side. The gay man finished rolling his sleeves up to the elbows and picked up a large butcher knife.

"So... What exactly is he planning to do there?" Chad asked with a small frown. He slid the knife into the top of the pumpkin with the precision of a surgeon, cutting in at an angle.

"I think he wants to try to settle things with the, uh," Ben waved a hand. "The people he killed. They haunt the outside of the house every Halloween."

"I _know_," said Chad. He carefully carved around the stem, leaving a good deal of room between it and the knife for the perfect lid. "They're as bad as pigeons."

Ben didn't like the comparison but he also didn't want to get into an argument of semantics with Chad at the moment. "I'm going with him," he said, watching as Chad lifted the newly-cut lid off the pumpkin. "For support and... Just to be sure things don't get too... Crazy."

Chad laughed. "You think _you're_ going to be able to stop _that_?" He smirked and sliced the clinging seeds from the underside of the lid. "Have you always been this egotistical or is it something you developed when you hit puberty?"

"It's not ego," he said, earning a snort from Chad. "I'm just confident he and I can handle-"

"You have _no_ idea what you're walking into," said Chad with amused incredulity. "How can you be sure of anything?"

"I didn't say I was sure," said Ben.

"Oh, don't mince words," said Chad, waving the butcher knife at him. "You believe your bullshit more than anyone else here does." He set the knife down, shoved a hand into the pumpkin and pulled out a fistful of sloppy seeds. "Have either of you told Patrick?"

"Not yet."

Chad's brows went up. "You don't expect _me_ to do it."

"No," said Ben. He noticed some orange plastic pumpkin tools and picked up one that had a row of pointy spikes. He poked the tip of his finger with it absently. "Actually, I was hoping you could get him to meet me somewhere."

Chad's brows went even higher. He slung more pumpkin innards down on the paper. "You really do believe in miracles."

Ben smiled. "Not exactly. What I meant is... If you could maybe get him to run an errand for you tomorrow morning? Then I could arrange to 'accidentally' be there at the same time."

"I suppose..." Chad drawled, thinking even as he answered. "I could have him go get another one of these," he said, patting the pumpkin with his clean hand. "We could use one for the table as well as the porch. And maybe a third one. I could make a punch bowl. These ones the grocer delivered just aren't punch-worthy."

"Why isn't Tate helping you?" asked Ben, at the risk of getting off-topic. Pumpkin carving seemed a like a thing Tate would love to help with.

Chad huffed a short laugh. "I don't keep big knives and Tate in the same room."

Now it was Ben's turn to raise his brows. "Is he really that bad? I thought-"

Chad shook his head and glopped more seeds onto the newspaper. "It's not him. It's the house."

Ben looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"

Chad he sighed dramatically and wiped pumpkin innards off his arm and onto the apron he had tied around his waist. "He can't fight the impulses it sends him. So I try to keep him away from anything that might send the wrong signals."

Ben stared at Chad. "Really?"

Chad's eyes widened. "_Yeah_," he said as if it was the simplest thing in the world to comprehend. "What's so hard to understand?"

Ben cleared his expression and shook his head. "I just... Find it a little surprising, is all."

"What, that I want to keep our resident psycho unarmed?"

"No," said Ben. "I just didn't realize you thought the house had that much control over him."

"Of _course_ it does," said Chad. He sounded and looked like he thought Ben was being a complete moron. "You can't tell me you don't feel it when it makes you do things."

It took Ben a moment to respond. Of course he knew what Chad was saying was true. He just hadn't consciously thought about it before. "I suppose I have," he said carefully.

"You are _so_ fucking _arrogant_," Chad marveled. He shoved the pumpkin toward Ben. "Roll up your sleeves and finish getting the slimy shit out of this thing. I need to start scraping the outer layers or it's not going to get done tonight."

Ben looked at the pumpkin then pushed the sleeves of his navy turtleneck up past his elbows. He reached in and grabbed a grip of slimy-cool strands. It was very satisfying to dig his fingers in and rake the muck out. He smiled.

...

(Author's Note: You must listen to _That Old Black Magic_ by Frank Sinatra while you read this part. Queue it up on YouTube. Then read on.)

**1974**

It was Ben's first Halloween at Waverly's Foster Home for Wayward Boys. There wasn't a lot about the place to get excited over but all of the other places he'd lived didn't do anything at all for Halloween. One orphanage hung up a paper skeleton but that was the extent of their festivities. Most years, Halloween was just another day for Ben, even though he liked the holiday.

He was 13 this year - lucky number 13 - and everything was different. The boys were getting to carve pumpkins that afternoon following lunch. It put all of the boys in a cooperative mood; everyone cleared his place at the table and helped clean the kitchen without the house mothers having to nag. They were helpful in getting things set up afterward. In short order everything was ready.

The kitchen table held four large pumpkins on a layer of newspapers. There weren't enough for everyone to have one; they had to share - two boys to a pumpkin. They had all sat through a half hour long session on knife safety. They learned how to pass and receive a blade before they were partnered up with their gourd, two large spoons and two sharp knives. Ben was paired with Paul, the tallest, skinniest boy in the house. When he first arrived the other boys all called him Long Tall Paul. The kid answered to it so eventually they got in the habit of calling him LT for short and he answered to that as well. He wasn't very bright.

Ben picked up a knife and gave the pumpkin a critical look. He was just starting to visualize what sort of face the shape of the thing lent itself best to when LT plunged his blade into the side. Just stuck it right in without rhyme or reason.

"Hey!" snapped Ben. "Don't you think you should've asked before you went and did that?"

LT looked at him in dull surprise. "Huh?"

"It's my pumpkin too!"

Mrs. Lacey looked over from where she was wrapping apples in caramel. "Ben. Keep it down."

Ben glared at LT. "Just cut the lid off, stupid," he said much quieter. "We have to gut it before we can give it a face."

LT shrugged and pulled his knife out of the side of the pumpkin and shoved it into the top crudely. He hacked away till he could pull it free. A stringy rope of seeds came with it. LT dropped the top on the newspaper and thrust his hand into the pumpkin to scoop out the innards. That's when Ben shoved his knife into the side of the pumpkin, just like LT had.

The sharp blade penetrated the other boy's arm, piercing flesh and muscle deeply. He screamed and tried to pull his hand out but Ben left the knife in the pumpkin - just like LT had. The knife kept the kid's arm pinned inside the pumpkin. Mrs. Lacey dropped her apple and hurried over. Ben put his scared face on.

"It was an accident, Mrs. Lacey!" he said all aghast. "I was cutting and he just stuck his arm in!"

LT was too busy screaming to hear what Ben was saying. Mrs. Lacey rushed him to the hospital while Mrs. Peterson tried to restore order in the house. Another house mother was called in to help out and the boys were all sent to bed early. After that Ben wasn't allowed to use sharp knives at the boarding house. And he definitely wasn't allowed to carve pumpkins.

...

**2018 - October 30, evening**

"Well, now, that's interesting," said Father Jeremiah as he looked out the front window.

Contstance was on the sofa doing some needlepoint while Michael was setting up a board game for all them to play. The blonde woman glanced over but didn't stop what she was doing. "What could possibly be interestin' out there at this time of day?"

It was late afternoon; most folks would be commuting home so there wasn't a great chance of excitement on their sleepy block. But what Jeremiah saw was most unusual, to him.

"There's a moving van out in front of Chad and Patrick's place," he observed. "Are they moving out?"

He glanced back but Constance wasn't on the couch any longer; she was right beside him. She crowded him away from the window and peeked out the curtains to see for herself.

"I seriously doubt they're goin' anywhere," she muttered. Then she looked up at him, brows high. "Maybe they're movin' somethin' - or somebody - in with them."

Jeremiah nodded but he still wore that puzzled look. He hadn't moved much in his lifetime - coming to live with Constance was the only experience he had with the task. He pushed the curtains back further so he could see the box truck again. Two of the moving company's men emerged from the back carrying a large tarp-covered piece of furniture with them. It reminded Jeremiah of a coffin due to its size but it was probably a coffee table or hall bench.

"Well, when the movin' van leaves I'll pop by," said Constance. "And see what's what."

...

Abernathy Ambrose was in the house when the moving van arrived. He gave the men their instructions and then carried some of his personal things - things he didn't want strangers handling - up to the attic personally. He paused on entering to take quick stock of the cluttered, dusty things already there. He set the small stack of boxes down near the doorway and wandered further in. He noticed a silvery glint from the far corner.

Curious, he threaded his way between the boxes and various items left behind by previous owners. When he made it to the far corner he let his eyes slowly travel up the form suspended from the wall.

"It's been here for years," Moira said behind him in a sultry tone. "It's yours now."

"Is it?" Ambrose said mildly. "I wonder."

He reached out and brushed his fingertips over one of the black rubber gloves. It was cold to the touch, smooth. The chains that rigged it up off the floor jingled faintly when he gave the suit a tug. It was securely fastened to the wall and ceiling in a fashion that he could tell was intended to restrain a living being. He wondered if the previous owners had kept each other locked to the wall in such a fashion of if the device had an even more sinister purpose.

"We shall see," he said, more to himself than the maid who was standing so close behind him. He gave it another gentle tug then let go. The black rubber suit shuddered and swayed a little, looking for a moment like it was alive. "But I suspect... It already belongs to someone."

**xxx**

* * *

Author's Note:

T'was the night before Halloween...

I probably should have broken this into two parts but I couldn't resist posting Halloween stuff tonight.

So Violet's finally let Tate in. It's definitely not the Romeo and Juliet moment he's dreamt of so often but something's better than nothing. I was hoping she'd kiss him but I guess those nightmares her dad planted really did a number on her. Or else she's just leery of going too fast. I'm interested to know what you guys think. Why's she holding back?

And those of you who wrote in saying you weren't convinced that Pat and Tate's method of getting rid of Rubber Man would work... How's it feel to be right?

So. Next chapter is the 2nd part of this one and centers around Westfield (past and present) and Halloween. I won't be posting it till after real Halloween but I'm working on a chapter for my Season 3 story that'll have a dose of it, since I feel Kyle didn't get enough face time in tonight's episode. And what a bloody face it is. So stay tuned!

This episode ranked 'Robert Louis Stevenson' on _I Write Like..._


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